Batteries Not Included

I’d woke early (like 5-ish), courtesy of next-doors’ sproglet and stayed that way due to subconscious , but unacknowledged panic.

About to take an exam I felt wholly unprepared for*, and concentrating so much on running over the information that I’d managed to cram into my head, thoughts of breakfast didn’t even occur to me.

Little Boots had worked out that I had an exam. The only point of reference in synch with this was the weekly spelling test. “Hope you get eight out of eight” said LB, with the conviction of one who always does. I responded with weak grin.

“Boris” our crappy, battered Citroen Saxo wouldn’t start. He’d been screwed by the cold weather and lack of use. I rolled the little tin can down the road and bump-started the thing and everything seemed fine. More so when I got to college, turned it off and the car started again straight after.

I went into the exam expecting the worst. The first part of the paper was short answers and I think I did really well.

Then I turned to the longer answers – OMFG!!

My immediate reaction was that I could not answer a single question much less three.

After the initial panic I tried to get a handle on things, I reckoned I’d tucked away most of the marks for the first bit, which equated to nearly 23% of the exam- nearly halfway towards a pass.

I realised I could answer one question quite well and that I could probably bullshit some of the marks out of two others.

And I did so, hoping it would be enough.

I left the exam room mentally exhausted. At that point I start to shake. Having not eaten my blood sugar level went through the floor and, without adrenaline to sustain me, I was suddenly as weak as a duckling.

It got worse. The car wouldn’t start. I tried to bump start it. Lack of food and the fact that I’d packed the thing with compost, intending to go to the allotment on the way home, meant that I failed. Twice.

The young students wandering around the campus ignored me. Some doubtless because they had never known the joy of bump-starting a car and didn’t know what was going on, but mostly because they were, quite rightly, enjoying being silly and self-obsessed.

I was rescued by a rotund lady who announced that it was a long time since she done this – a long time since she’d done lots of things I reckon – and a chain-smoking gent with a gay caballero ‘tache.